


Artistic License

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Idiots in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 14:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6989389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you respond to an attractive dwarf writing the sequel to your favourite book?</p>
<p>With a book of your own. Simple, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artistic License

The messenger leaves a parcel on Varric's desk before he is even awake, so there is nobody to collar when he cannot find a recipient on it anywhere. Eyeing it with suspicion, he decides to leave it be until he has more fully woken up, and so it is not until mid-morning that the dwarf, tired of Guild correspondence, weighs the parcel in his hands.

It is slim, for a book - he has received enough of those to know exactly what it is, even if its sender is conspicuous in their absence. He sighs, tugging on the string and letting the wrapping fall off -

Oh.

_The Tale of the Warrior._

He refrains from rolling his eyes at the title. Clearly someone's first real story, the unimaginative title left him with real concerns for the contents. Still, no author was named, and the cover was simply bound in red and gold. The mystery continued, it seems.

Flicking the book open, the dedication catches his eye, and his brow furrows as he re-reads it twice for good measure.

_For Varric, without whom words seem quite hollow._

“Huh.”

*

Leliana sighs, and Cassandra can feel her irritation growing.

“I am simply saying that it is not an _easy_ matter to broach -”

“He wrote you a book,” interrupts Leliana. “I would say it is _remarkably_ easy.”

“That was - that was not -”

“Cassandra, friends do not write romance novels for people they only wish to remain friends with.” She smiles slightly. “Or, at least, _Varric_ does not. He has offered his hand freely. It must be you who acts now.”

She swallows, hands curling around her mug of wine. “I… I cannot. I am not -” She stops, sighing. “I am not so straightforward in matters of the heart.”

“Then at least give him a sign. Some show of interest, or he might think there is no hope to be found.”

“How? I have no gift of words.”

Leliana considers this. “Perhaps that is why it _should_ be words,” she says finally. “Even the simplest poem would be a mark of serious intention.”

She laughs, hollow. “Poetry. As if it were so simple to write.”

“A story, then. A tale of a warrior woman and her roguish love interest, and how they came to find peace in each other’s company.” She smiles. “And of course, it ends with a confession of love, and hope for the future.”

Cassandra offers a wan smile. “It sounds like a marvellous idea. But I -”

“You focus too much on the idea that you are unable to do such a thing. Where is the emboldened Seeker I know?”

“You have read my reports! You know this is beyond me!”

“I have heard you speak of your heart - the way that poetry moves it, the keen it felt at Haven’s loss…” She leans forward, cupping Cassandra’s hands with her own. “The ache that echoes through it when Varric is with the Inquisitor in the field…”

“I have never spoken of such a thing!”

“Not with words, perhaps, but do you deny it?”

Her lips quirk at being caught out. “You _know_ I cannot.”

“Then you have the words within you. We must simply coax them out.”

“You will help me?”

“Ask any of our friends, and they will aid you. Perhaps their voices will give yours strength?”

Cassandra considers this, before looking up into Leliana’s intense gaze. “Perhaps… there is merit to your suggestion.” “Then you will write?” “I suppose I have little choice, if I am to bare my heart…”

*

She gets stuck on the first page.

“Bull, how would you describe me?”

The giant raises an eyebrow. “Is this a trick question?”

She sighs. “No, but you are observant and you see people as they are. I cannot reliably describe myself as I am.”

He cocks his head with interest. “Can’t you?”

“Of course not -”

“Seeker, the only person fit to describe you as you are is yourself. Everyone else is biased.”

She huffs. “But I am frequently told that I am -”

“Way too self-critical?”

“No -”

“Completely blind whenever you look in the mirror?”

She laughs, swatting his arm. “You are maddeningly unhelpful!”

“What, then?”

“That I am not good with description, when I write. Facts of the events and people, I write frequently for reports. But I do not have the soft touch of a writer.”

Bull leans in, smirking. “And you can’t talk to Varric about this?”

“No.”

“Aw,” he rumbles, nudging her arm, “you’re adorable, Cassandra!”

She scowls at him. “Do not -”

“I won’t tell him anything, don’t worry.” Leaning back, he considers her for a long moment. “Alright. Start writing, and I’ll tell you what I see. Set the scene for me.”

Cassandra dips her quill into the ink. “The battle is short-lived, but in the aftermath there stood the warrior…”

*

“- there stood the warrior, a woman of good standing if her straight back and steely gaze were anything to go by. She held her shield like a weapon and her sword with the care of a fighter who did not wish to strike. Though she would, if it came to it.”

Varric almost drops the book from laughter. “Shit,” he breathes, “you’re gonna argue with the description now, Seeker?”

It could be no-one else, he knew that in his heart. Already he could see the part where Tiny had guided her hand, borrowed words from someone who saw more to her. And still, the choppy sentences and abrupt words of the Seeker shone through, truly her story.

That she had written anything at all was… the thought brings a familiar tug to his heart, and he cannot quite shift the smile on his face as he folds the book under his arm, leaving the hall and heading to the privacy of his rooms.

*

“I am stuck,” Cassandra says to nobody in particular,

The small library underneath the main hallway had become something of a sanctuary for her, in the weeks she had taken to write the bulk of their story - and it was theirs, from the heat of their first meeting and her quick temper at the revelations of the “rogue’s hidden child” - Hawke had insisted on that particular plot twist - to the quiet of their lone mission through the “Splinterlands” - a creation of Sera’s.

But now the silence was unbearable as she floundered in the story, and she finds herself heading up to find the Ambassador.

“I am stuck,” she repeats quietly at Josephine’s curious gaze.

“Would you allow me to read what you have done so far?”

Nodding, Cassandra hands over the bundle of papers, flopping into the woman's seat as she vacates it to pace and read.

“Cassandra, I - I have to admit, this is over quite quickly.” Her brow furrows as she turns the page. “It is simply the facts. Where is the heart?”

“That is where I am stuck. I cannot write what I feel in the way that others can.”

Josephine smiles. “Then perhaps you can tell me, and I will translate onto the page? I have been doing it for months,” she adds, “to soften our Commander’s missives.”

She laughs at that. “I could not trouble you -”

“I insist.” Settling into a relaxed stance, she flicks her quill. “Let us begin… ah, here. The cave-in.”

Cassandra closes her eyes, the memory of Varric’s unconscious, bloodied body still worrying easy to recall.

“It was… unnerving, at first. I do not think he had ever been so quiet…”

*

_... for even in his sleep he had a distinctive snuffling snore. But no, he was silent and still and it was a creeping fear that overtook her as she turned him over to check him for wounds. She could not allow herself to panic, of course, but for the long and quiet minutes before she could rouse him, she knew nothing but terror that he might never make another sound again._

Varric swallows, shifting against the headboard of his bed. She had been terrified, and the first thing he had done was to demand her patience and calm as he had panicked about being underground. She had been… well, _her_. Stronger than anyone he knew. Only now did he realise just how strong she had been.

“I do _not_ snore,” he mutters, his deflection evident even alone.

*

The book was almost finished. Cassandra could take pride in what she had accomplished - in truth, more than a little pride that she had managed something so grand. It was no Swords and Shields, of course, but… it was from the heart, and that was enough.

But the ending…

Leliana had said it, at the beginning. It had to be hopeful, it had to admit the truth, and it had to ask the question. Here, at the end, Cassandra was once more stuck. She could not ask anyone to help her, not for this final step. But she could not find the right words. It had to be perfect.

Standing up from her table, she stretches her arms above her head, considering the scene. The warrior was brave, but she was scared. The unknown was an intangible thing, a whisper of a thought that she could not grasp… oh, that was rather good, she thinks, scribbling it down.

Perhaps she was overthinking this. The warrior was her, after all. Her fears about their developing… situation were what had led her down this path, after all. She just needed to be completely honest.

The truth, then, she decides, reaching one last time for the quill.

*

_... and as the warrior stood in the doorway, she felt a trepidation - not in her task, but in the uncertainty of it all. That she could not truly know his feelings was a terrifying thought. And yet… and yet she could not stop herself from speaking, could not deny the attraction she felt for the rogue. She could not deny that she wanted more._

_“Edric,” she said, “would it be possible for us to become something more… together?”_

Varric’s heart stops in his chest at the end of the page.

“What?”

He flips the next page over, but it is blank.

“What? No!”

Scrambling off the bed, he tugs on his boots and marches straight out of the Keep, angry muttering under his breath.

The armory is silent, save for the loud footsteps of Varric ascending the stairs.

“Seeker!”

There is a look on her face he has not seen since Adamant - a fear that came with a tinge of green. She swallows audibly.

“Varric.”

“You didn't finish the book!” He holds it up accusingly. “You can't just leave it there!”

She blinks. “What?”

“That's not an ending! It's barely the end of a _sentence!_ After all that build up, you can't -”

“Varric,” she says with a slight smile, “how many cliffhanger endings have _you_ written?”

“That isn't the _point!_ ” He slams the book on the table in front of her. “That's not the end!”

“Then what _is_ the end?”

“The part where Edric _kisses_ her!” He is only aware that he is shouting when the silence falls.

She stares at him.

Something between them snaps, and Varric's hands cup her face as their mouths press against each other, relief and desire flooding through him in equal measure. Her hands bury themselves in his hair, fingers scratching against his scalp in a move that sends a shiver through him, and he moans against her as his chest pushes her against the back of the chair.

She pushes him back for a moment, unfocused eyes blinking up at him. “Varric -”

“Yes,” he says firmly, “ _yes,_ I want more. With you. I want -”

She places her thumb over his lips, smiling brightly. “ _Varric_. Edric does not kiss the warrior.” Rising from her seat, she takes his hand, leading him to the cot in the corner. Varric shivers again, the sense that something unbelievable and fantastic was about to happen, before finding himself shoved down against the blanket as Cassandra straddles his hips.

“Nngh,” he manages, reaching to pull her face closer.

“The warrior kisses Edric,” she murmurs, before her lips meet his once more.

*

“I had help, you know.”

He smiles at her admission - a soft, wonderful thing that lights up his entire face. She feels blessed to be here, curled around him in the crook of his body. His warm, _naked_ body. Something in her chest tightens.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Did they tell you?”

“I could see it in your writing. Although, writing Hawke as my _kid_ -”

“Entirely Hawke’s suggestion,” she says, and he chuckles.

“Of course it was.”

His hand reaches to cup her cheek, thumb trailing over the scar. His touch is warming, familiar - _home._

“I'm impressed. Didn't know you _knew_ how to ask for help,” he teases, grinning as she huffs. “It was brilliant,” he adds. “The whole thing. _You_ are brilliant.”

She pulls a face. “It is not something I am likely to do again. Writing is not my area of expertise.”

“I loved it. It was honest, and it was heartfelt, and the ending could do with a lot of work, but -”

She laughs. “I thought the ending worked perfectly,” she points out with a smug tone, and he grins, pulling her in close.

“Alright, I’ll give you that one. But maybe you need to work on that final kiss scene.”

She wraps an arm around his neck, forehead resting against his. “Oh? I suppose you have a few ideas?”

“One or two. Call it artistic license…”


End file.
